Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  Later Carl realized it was more than the tensions between them. It was more than standing up for the rights of a downtrodden group. What it came down to was that he liked these men. It was that simple. He just liked them. They were not sophisticated men of the world. They were working men—craftsmen, laborers, men with calluses on their hands and sweat in their eyes. As for religion, instead of trying to poison his mind as his father said they would, they barely mentioned the subject. Twice Melissa asked this question or that about the Church, which they answered, but then they moved right on to other topics.

  But now there was this thing about their funds. If it was true, it was a miracle. Like in the Bible, just as Heber had suggested. Like it or not, religion had intruded itself now, without the missionaries ever having brought it up. And the way it came about made it all the more bothersome. If they had told him about the money at the table or while they were working together at the stable, Carl could have handled it more comfortably. It was easy to embellish a story, especially if you were trying to impress someone with your faith and piety. But they hadn’t even known he was there in the hallway. He was positive about that. And there was no sham in Brigham’s amazement. The man had been genuinely shocked to learn what had happened.

  Carl, unlike Joshua Steed, was a religious man. He took Melissa and the children to church each Sunday. He tried to let the Christian ideals guide his business and personal dealings. He believed in the Bible and that the miracles described therein were true. His only problem was that he didn’t believe they happened anymore. God had done his work. He had spoken to men and worked with his children and left a record of that for future generations. Miracles were Bible stuff. Angels and visions and revelations were for those long-ago days, not the nineteenth century. Those days were over now.

  Beside him, Melissa murmured softly, then rolled over onto her side, facing him. He turned his head just as she opened her eyes and saw that he was awake. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you been awake?”

  “I just . . .” He turned over onto his side. “I thought I heard the boys talking, so I got up to see if they were all right.”

  “And?” she said, lifting her head now to see him better.

  He shook his head. “I was wrong. They’re fine. Go back to sleep now.”

  She lay back down, and in a moment her eyes closed again. Carl’s did not. He continued staring upwards, his mind far too occupied for sleep.

  Chapter Notes

  Information about the movement eastward of the England-bound missionaries, with their various hardships and delays, is found in several sources but summarized nicely in MWM (see pp. 67–73). There were others who were called to go to England or who joined the missionaries for part of their travels, but it seemed burdensome in this work to try and keep track of every missionary traveling with the various groups.

  In the novel, Brigham and Heber are welcomed into the home of Carl and Melissa Rogers. In reality, while some received them warmly, the brethren recorded that for the most part, the help given by the Saints in Kirtland was less than it had been in other towns. Heber, who was a potter by trade, says he ruffled the feathers of some of the brethren there by comparing them “to a parcel of old earthen pots that were cracked in burning.” Before the missionaries finally left Kirtland, in order to get sufficient money to move onward they had to sell the horse and wagon given to them by other members. (See MWM, p. 73.)

  The miracle of the replenishing money supply was recorded by Heber C. Kimball (see LHCK, p. 273). The details of the amounts spent and totals accumulated, as well as Brigham’s assumption that Heber was secretly furnishing the money, are taken directly from that account, although the inclusion of Matthew in their calculations is obviously fictional.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Young Joshua Steed climbed down from the ladder and moved it a few feet farther along the wall. Then he went up again and continued dusting the glass chimneys for the hurricane lanterns. Below him, Josiah McBride sat in a chair, sipping a cup of tea. He watched his grandson with open affection. “You’re a good worker, Joshua.”

  “Thank you, Grandpa.”

  “Your mama taught you that, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. Papa too. We all have chores. Papa says it builds character.”

  Josiah laughed. “Your father is exactly right. And you do have character. It shows.”

  Young Joshua stopped, the feather duster poised in midair. “Papa says part of living the gospel is being a good person, and a man can’t be a good person if he doesn’t care for his family. And to do that you have to learn to work.”

  The older man peered more closely at his grandson. That was pretty deep wisdom for an eight-year-old. “When does your pa teach you all those things?”

  “Mostly when we read the scriptures. Sometimes when we’re working together.”

  “You read the Bible?” Josiah asked.

  “Yes. And the Book of Mormon and the Doctrine and Covenants.” If he saw his grandfather’s frown, he gave no sign. “We read the scriptures every night together before we have family prayer.”

  “Reading the Bible is good,” Josiah grunted.

  “I especially love the Book of Mormon.”

  Josiah straightened, then motioned with his hand. “Come down here, son. I want to talk with you.”

  The boy made two last passes with the duster, then came down the ladder. Josiah patted the chair next to him. “Sit down, Joshua.”

  As the boy did so, Lydia’s father set his cup aside and leaned forward. “Joshua, I want to talk with you about the Book of Mormon.”

  “All right.”

  Josiah took a quick breath and looked around. Nathan and Lydia were out visiting some of Lydia’s friends, but he wanted to be sure. Then he lowered his voice. “I know what your mother and father believe about that book, Joshua, but there’s something you need to know.”

  “What?”

  “Joseph Smith didn’t really write it.”

  Young Joshua blinked in surprise. “He didn’t?”

  “No. There was a man by the name of Solomon Spalding who wrote a book called Manuscript Found. It was a story about finding a record in a cave which tells about the Indians and where they came from.”

  Young Joshua’s face wrinkled, concentrating, a little puzzled by what he was hearing. Josiah hurried on. “This book by Spalding was written long before Joe Smith came along.”

  Joshua broke in. “Grandpa, Brother Joseph doesn’t like to be called Joe. He says his name is the same as Joseph in the Bible. So he likes to be called Joseph.”

  “Joseph Smith is a pompous fool!” Josiah snapped. Then, seeing the shock on his grandson’s face, he immediately dropped his voice again. “Joseph, Joe—that doesn’t matter. What I want you to know, Joshua, is this. The Book of Mormon is really nothing more than Joe’s—Joseph’s—taking the story of Solomon Spalding and making it his own, then telling people he got it from God.”

  Now Joshua was clearly perplexed, and Josiah felt a little burst of exultation. “That’s right. His partner actually wrote it for him. Rigdon . . . what’s his name?”

  “Sidney Rigdon.”

  “Yes, that’s the one. Believe me, I knew Joe Smith from the time he was a young boy. He had no school learning. He could barely write his name or speak an intelligent sentence. He couldn’t have written that book.”

  “But Grandpa, he didn’t write it. Mormon wrote it. And other prophets. Brother Joseph only translated it.”

  “A pack of lies to hide the real truth.” He leaned forward and grabbed Joshua by the shoulder. The boy winced a little. “I’m telling you, Joshua, Joe Smith made the whole thing up. And he’s hoodwinked all those people by telling them a pack of lies.”

  Young Joshua was looking at the floor now, and it was obvious he was troubled. Finally he looked up. “Have you read the Book of Mormon, Grandpa?”

  Josiah rocked back, his m
outh twisting. “Certainly not.”

  “If it’s not true, Grandpa, why does it make me feel so good when Papa reads it to us?” He ventured a tentative smile. “I’m starting to read it on my own now, but some of it is pretty hard.”

  “Your parents are very good people, Joshua, but they have been blinded by Joseph Smith. You need to hear the other side. Remember, there’s more to all that stuff about angels and golden plates than they’ve told you.”

  The oldest son of Nathan and Lydia stood and faced his grandfather, and now his mouth was set. “I know you don’t like Joseph Smith, Grandpa, but I do. I like to hear him teach us the gospel. I like it when he tells us what the Lord wants us to do.”

  Josiah came right up out of his chair, openly angry now, but young Joshua went on quickly. “I’m sorry you don’t like him or the Book of Mormon, Grandpa. But I know Joseph is a prophet of God. I was baptized this year. Papa laid his hands on my head and gave me the gift of the Holy Ghost, and the Holy Ghost tells me the Book of Mormon is true.”

  Then before the sputtering Josiah could respond to that, young Joshua spun around. “I’d better go find Emily and Elizabeth Mary. Good-bye, Grandpa.”

  “And what did you say?” Nathan asked, looking at Lydia over his son’s shoulder and warning her off with his eyes.

  Joshua told them, simply and without any sense of pride.

  When he finished, Nathan just shook his head, his eyes suddenly moist. He took his son by both shoulders. “You answered him exactly right, son. I’m very proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Pa. Can I go play now?”

  Nathan stood, again shooting Lydia a look that said, Not now, and gave his son a playful shove toward the door. “Yes.”

  Once the door closed, Lydia shot to her feet, eyes seething. “That makes me furious!”

  Nathan was still watching the door where Joshua had just been. “That’s just your father.”

  “Just my father!” she cried, shocked that he was so calm.

  “Honey, your father is old and tired and sick. He’s mellowed a great deal in a lot of ways. But expecting him to change what he believes about Joseph Smith and the Mormons at this late date in his life is not being very realistic.”

  “He can believe whatever he wants,” she snapped, “but I won’t be having him trying to poison our children. Has he taken Emily aside too? Are we going to have to make sure they’re never alone with him?”

  Nathan let it all come out, watching her with some amazement. This was his old Lydia back. He hadn’t seen this much fire in her for some time.

  She stopped her pacing and spun around. “We’re going home, Nathan.”

  He rocked back. That was a little more fire than he had expected.

  “We are. I’m going to start packing right now. We’ll leave in the morning.”

  He walked over to her, but she suspected what he was about to do and whirled away from him. “I am. I mean it. I won’t have him doing this.”

  “We’re not going home, Lydia.”

  She swung around, staring at him in disbelief.

  “We’re not. Not yet.”

  “You don’t care about what he’s doing?”

  “Of course I care.”

  “Then why won’t you do something?”

  He ignored that question. He reached out again and pulled her to him. She didn’t fight him this time. “Can I tell you why we’re not going home yet?”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re not done yet with why we came.”

  “We came because I ran away,” she burst out. “We came because I couldn’t face life anymore. We came—” She took a deep breath. “We came because I lost my son and when I did I was afraid I was also losing my faith.”

  He was nodding solemnly. “Actually, we came for two other reasons. First, our children needed to see their grandparents. That would have been reason enough. The second reason, and far more important, was that you needed to take a step back, let yourself recover a little from the past year and a half.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, suddenly defensive.

  “It means that when you and me got sick this summer, we lost our ability to function in a normal way. We had to go to bed so we could recover. Well, sometimes our minds or our spirits get sick too. That’s all that’s happened to you. You haven’t lost your faith at all. You’re just tired and weary and sick at heart.”

  “And you really think that’s all it is?” she asked, hope finally touching her voice.

  “Yes!” He wanted to shake her and make her believe him. “Think about what you have gone through in the past fifteen to eighteen months.” He started ticking them off on his fingers. “An eight-hundred-mile move from Kirtland to Missouri while heavy with Elizabeth Mary; persecution, mobbings, and imprisonment of loved ones while you were in Far West; being dragged out of a root cellar by some filthy Missourians and being saved at the last second; watching one of those men shot and killed before your eyes; going through a winter with your children, not knowing if they’d have enough food to survive, and facing that alone because I was off helping Joshua find Caroline.”

  He stopped and took a quick breath. “And that only gets us to January. Add in another two-hundred-mile exodus with four children; living in a one-room cabin with seventeen or eighteen people for weeks at a time; getting—”

  She was shaking her head and he stopped. “Other people have faced worse than I have. It’s true, we were crowded in that cabin, but we had a cabin, thanks to Joshua. I lost a son, but Jessica lost her husband. Amanda Smith lost a husband and a son. Emma? I could name more. They went through worse than I did, and you don’t see them falling apart like some child who doesn’t get his way on the school playground.”

  “You lost your son, Lydia. That alone is enough to put many women over the edge, but add that to everything else and it’s an incredible load. It’s like you were put in a barrel and then rolled off a mountain. You bounce and you crash, you bruise your ribs and your arms and your legs. And all it does is roll faster and hit harder and crash louder than before. No wonder you’re feeling a little battered. No wonder you feel like you’ve lost your bearings. But your heart is all right. Your faith is there, as strong as it ever was. All you need to do is what you do when your body is sick. You need rest. You need a chance to recover. And this is why we came—and why we aren’t going to pack and leave in the morning.”

  He stopped, letting out his breath. He hadn’t planned on quite so passionate a speech.

  After several moments of searching his face, she finally spoke. “And you really think that’s all it is?” she asked again, finally starting to accept his words.

  “I know that’s all it is.” There was a fleeting smile. “In fact, I can prove to you that you haven’t lost your faith.”

  “How?”

  “Why were you so angry just now about your father and young Joshua?”

  “Because he’s trying to convince Joshua not to believe in . . .” She saw the trap he had sprung on her, and stopped.

  “If you really had lost your testimony, you wouldn’t care what your father believes or what Joshua believes.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  He kissed her tenderly. “Well, while you’re thinking about that, let me say something else. The next time you start whipping yourself because you’re not all that you’d like to be, you just walk into your son’s bedroom and take a long look.”

  “You mean at young Joshua?”

  He nodded. “There he is, not yet nine years old. His grandfather—a man in his sixties, wise, sophisticated, good with words, whom this boy admires and loves very much—challenges the very fundamentals of his faith. Does he falter? No. Does he doubt? No! Does he run away in fear? No! He bears his testimony to the man.” His eyes were misty with pride now. “And he does it more simply and more profoundly than many men—including his own father—could ever do.”

  “Yes.” It was only one word but it s
aid it all. Yes, I know that what young Joshua did is all you say. Yes, I know that what you say about my anger toward Papa is true. Yes, I know that what you are saying about faith and testimony and healing are true.

  “That boy would not be what he is if you were not what you are, Lydia. You think about that, because you know it is true. And that should give you a joy and satisfaction that runs more deeply than all the mobs, all the persecutions, and all the losses that this life can hold for us.”

  Melissa was sitting in front of the mirror, brushing her hair with long, even strokes. She watched as Carl polished his boots, brushing them to a high gleam with the same methodical rhythm she was using. Finished finally, he held them up, peering at the shining surface. He gave them one last rub on the sleeve of his robe, then set them down beneath the chair where he already had tomorrow’s clothes laid out.

  He looked around for a moment, as if he had misplaced something, and caught her looking at him in the mirror. He smiled briefly, then went to the wardrobe and began rummaging through it.

  “Carl?”

  He poked his head around the door.

  She took a quick breath. “The brethren are having worship services tomorrow. This will be their last before they leave.”

  He nodded perfunctorily. “I know.”

  Her one eyebrow arched a little. “You do?”

  “Yes. Derek told me about it this morning.”

  He was so matter-of-fact about it, she was taken aback.

  Shutting the wardrobe door, he came over and stood behind her. He took the hairbrush from her and began brushing her hair for her. “You want to go?” he finally asked.

  She stopped herself from jerking around to stare at him, but her eyes were staring at him in the mirror. “Yes. Yes, I would. Would you mind?”

  He had a sardonic expression as he met her eyes in the mirror. “No. I was hoping we could go to the evening meeting Brigham was telling us about as well as the ones during the day. It will be held in the temple too, but he said that it was only for a few of the elders.”

  Now she did spin around to look at him directly. “ ‘We’?” she echoed.